The Energy of Nothing
by Alamo Girl
Summary: [CH. 4 UP!] Someone should have told Robert Goren, life in this universe does not follow a static line.
1. A Relative Constant

**Disclaimer:** Never have I owned anything concerned with the characters of L&O: Criminal Intent. I borrow them from time to time—torture, twist them, and make them burn a few calories in various ways—but then I return them to Mr. Wolf. He has many lawyers, and if they sue, not much money can be squeezed from me. The story and plot are mine, however.

**A/N** Ok, people have been asking when I was going to do another CI story. Well, I am a procrastinator (hangs head) sorry about that. I'm not good with deadlines for fic challenges, I tend to write when the inspiration hits. And after seeing the episode "Gone", I felt there were simply too many story tid-bits sprinkled throughout the show for plot inspiration. Again, I tend to write for the dark-side of Bobby Goren (cause he's so easy to work with in that way), so here we go again. I hope you like it! This will be R rated eventually, so USE your own JUDGMENT!

**Mild SPOILERS**: "Gone"

**"The Energy of Nothing"** by Alamo Girl ©

**Part 1 "A Relative Constant" **

_"People with great gifts are easy to find, but symmetrical and balanced ones…never." Ralph Waldo Emerson_

_"Talent is a Flame. Genius is a Fire." Bern Williams_

People will tell you "Find your niche in life, and stick to it." It sounds a lot easier than it truly is. It's not as if one can just stumble upon that one thing that allows them to display their God-given talents—with the ease and grace one can allot to a creature in its domain. No, that naturalness, the perceptible finesse that comes from doing one thing—and doing that thing better than anyone else—is not the easiest thing to find. Some people spend their entire life searching for that 'one thing'—what they were always meant to do. Others, are simply lucky enough to be born into their talents—and follow that yellow-brick road right to the place they belonged—occasionally with the added prize of finding a partner to share their journey with, along the way.

Detective Robert Goren, with all of his faults, quirks and little eccentricities that most, (save his partner, Alex Eames), never allowed themselves to fully understand—had always, underneath it all, managed to believe that he was one of the lucky ones. He, from hard work and extraordinary talents, had been able to find a job doing what he felt he was always meant to do—namely becoming a New York City detective for the Major Case squad. And up until this case, that relative constant—his knowledge that his job would always be his number one priority—would never change.

But God has a way of changing the variables…altering the formula—and proving that the universe is definitely not static.

"Shit!" Boiling hot coffee sloshed over the lip of the Styrofoam cup and trickled down the grungy hand of Bobby Goren.

He swore as quietly as he could—shaking his hand and wiping the spilled liquid on his tattered pants leg. Miniscule flakes of freezing rain were still drizzling through the air, and the dim street lamps gave little lighting along the seedy neighborhood. A couple of adult bookstores, a tavern, and a run-down bodega lined the opposite side of the street from Goren's post. People in varying degrees of drunkenness ambled up and down the sidewalk, some talking and laughing, while others skulked in and out of the scummier establishments.

Goren pulled his stained army fatigue coat closer around himself, his eyes scanned the walkers and the doors of the adjacent buildings. Stakeouts had become a norm for him while he worked Narcotics. Being cold, tired and hungry—much to the dismay of his former partners—never seemed to bother Goren very much. He reveled in the hunt—allowing his honed skills of observation and profiling take over until he was nearly completely fixated on his task at hand. The sketchy profile of their quarry was burned into his mind, especially since, in this case—their afore-mentioned quarry seemed to be very adept at giving the detectives the slip.

And underneath the façade of a controlled, Holmesian style, head-tilting, psycho-analytical detective genius—was an ego that did _not_ like to loose.

Zoned in again, Goren jumped slightly when a voice crackled in his ear piece.

"All clear at station two."

He looked over his shoulder at the heap of a car parked in an alley just down from him—Detective James and a newbie to the force, Breuteli.

"No sign of our boy at station three," the fuzzy voice of Detective Howser, one of the grey haired veterans that sat behind his and Eames' desks back at One P.P., "Although, I _have_ learned that cockroaches can pick up donut pieces twice their body size."

Goren sighed heavily—rolling his eyes somewhat, as he looked up to the darkened room in the two-story ramshackle building across the street. Howser and Tempson were station there in one of the old rooms, with telephoto lenses and other surveillance equipment.

The slightly lightened mood caused a few more snickers over the mic lines, and Bobby knew despite himself, that it was the lightest the Major Case team had been since the beginning of this case. He tensed again, as his mind wandered back to their prey—and how he'd first come on their radar. He had been dubbed, "Digger"—his favorite form of disposing the strangled corpses of the call-girls was burying them in shallow graves all over Brooklyn. For three months now, Goren and Eames had been on his trail, following leads from various call-girl services and tapping into their underground sources—staying up to allhours pouring over an infinitesimal number of psychology books (although that was mainly Goren).

But, much to their frustration, Digger seemed to be two steps ahead of them. No prints, no fluids, he changed strangulation tools every kill—and to top it off, he seemed to be a master of disguises. He was a chameleon, blending into the seedy shadow-world of hookers and adult entertainment. And probably the thing that was pissing Bobby off the most was he simply couldn't get a line on his psychopathy. The guy kept changing every time they'd think they were close. Leaving little toying inconsistencies with every kill, intended to further confuse New York's finest, seemed to be his new fetish.

And now, when they'd finally been able chase down the myriad of connect-less clues—and might be able to get a glimpse of this guy—the detectives under his command, were joking around on a stakeout! As if the Mayor and Chief of Detectives, as well as Carver and Deakins breathing down his neck, wasn't enough to deal with.

"Cut the chatter, guys." Goren growled into his mic., his anger welling up again. He should have nailed this little asshole by now. It shouldn't have taken three months, and 6 dead women, for him to be able to trip this little shit up...or get in his head and see his next move.

"Sorry guys. Looks like Hobo Goren's getting his rags in 'ah twist. Whats'a matter Bobby - you seein' your near perfect arrest record slidin' a little?" The taunting of Breuteli's Italiano-Brooklyn accent set Goren's teeth to grinding. He knew they were all worn out, dejected and tired of having the Brass looking over their shoulders.

What was worse though, in the back of his mind…Goren knew Breuteli was right. Losing was a foreign concept to him. But he certainly wasn't about to let some sawed-off little rookie _prick_ mouth off.

"This hump has killed 6 women - probably more. If we don't stop him, he's going to kill again. This is the closest we've gotten to him, down to the - street we think he's going hunt next. Now, keep your eyes peeled and your mouths shut!" His eyes fixed into the darkness with a cold, icy stare.

A chorus of - "Yeah, you're right Goren" - came over the headsets from the other, older detectives. Bobby moved to the doorway of the building he was crouching next to, leaning his bulky frame against the doorframe—crossing his arms over his chest in an attempt to look casual.

After a beat, he added, "And Breuteli…"

"Yeah, boss?"

"Blow me." Goren allowed the small smile of triumph to creep over his face, when he heard the older detectives' muffled laughter. The rookie, wisely, remained silent.

Bobby's eyes had begun to scan the forms of the working girls trolling up and down the block—one form in particular he was searching for. A petite, blonde form—who had drawn the short straw and had to don her former Vice attire to walk the street's length in ankle-aching stilettos. They needed someone on the front line—who would see Digger first, hopefully while he was coming out of one of the brothels, stores or bars—working a deal with his next call-girl victim. Bobby only hoped Eames would be in the right place, at the right time to catch a glimpse of this guy (since the only concurring ID trait was that he was short and muscular—all else was unusable data from the amount of disguises this guy used) and she might be able to snag his attention.

Eames, after hearing where her station was to be, only muttered something about "the ol' worm-on-a-hook post", to which Goren assured her that she was merely the only one who could cover the post near the adult bookstore, without looking conspicuous.

"Oh, I'll just blend in with the rest of the hookers. No problem there, huh Bobby?" She'd said with a wry smile, and sardonic tone. She always had a knack for making Bobby smile, even if at the time, he felt like his size 13 foot was firmly planted in his famous mouth.

Goren's eyes glazed somewhat, as he remembered how he'd stuttered and tried to recover himself that day. His hand tilted again, spilling more coffee down his wrist. He dropped the cup, swearing again under his breath, and returned his beacon-like eyes to the street—starting to worry when he'd lost track of Eames somewhere during his lookout for a physical match to Digger.

"You're wasting perfectly good coffee, Bobby." Alex's voice was warm and smooth over the mic, instantly settling his darting eyes. As always, she was perfectly aware of him, as he was of her. And even though he couldn't see her, he knew she had a soft, knowing smirk on her face. He relaxed a little.

"Yeah, well I should…probably cut down on that stuff anyway," he said, resuming his watch. "Any action?"

Alex sighed wearily, hugging her long, leather coat to herself and working her neck side-to-side to pop the kinks.

"If you call nearly getting thrown up on, while some drunk is trying to hit on you '_action'_," she muttered.

She could nearly feel Goren begin to tense with frustration. They been out in the cold half the night, and were still no closer to this Digger-schmuck. She understood Bobby's building anxiety over this case. It had become "high-profile", garnering press from all the news and bringing down subsequent heat from the politicians up the food chain. All expectations were on Major Case, which, not surprisingly—meant those expectations were laid on Goren and Eames' shoulders.

_Mostly Goren's_, if Alex was honest with herself. Every time Digger would slip through a sting operation, baffle investigators with oddball clues, or do a complete 180 turn-around from the path they thought he should have gone—Bobby blamed himself. And now he was responsible for a task force—the very one that was freezing their asses off out here with she and her tall partner, tonight.

Commanding others wasn't up there on Goren's "_like_" lists either. He had trouble tactfully conveying what he wanted them to know (without sounding condescending), and for the most part, not many could keep up with Goren's ever-churning, erratic mind. He preferred to follow his own deductions, speeding off to follow up on his own theories leaving others lost in his dust, go his own route (stubborn as he was)—which usually succeeded in pissing off the ADA, and making the higher-ranking Brass wary of his methods. They didn't mind his impressive arrest rate, however—or using the fruits of his and Alex's labors, to better their own gains.

So, Alex quickly added after a moment of strained silence, "Nobody that matched the rather _crappy_ description of Digger, though. I've seen tall and lean, short and fat, old and ugly…but not short and muscular." She smiled, "If any of you guys want to trade places, I'll be glad to help you into these heels and the push-up bra, though."

Another chorus of - "No thanks," and "_Hell_ no" - crackled over the ear pieces, tickling her ear.

Bobby's voice came back after a moment, deep and rich with sincerity, "You're the one at ground zero, Alex. If he shows, and something goes down…y-you'll be in the middle."

Alex paused in her walking, hearing the underlying meaning in Goren's soft voice.

"Just wanted you to know… we're watching." He said sincerely, his eyes following her movements.

"I never doubted you'd have my back," she answered, her tone trying to be cheerful.

Goren exhaled though his nose, his warm breath sending up a plume in the frigid blackness in front of his face. Methodically he began to catalog every male walking up and down the street again—knowing Digger was near by—and flitting in the back of his mind, was Alex's comment. Though meant for the entire team—he knew, deep down, she was relying on_ him_.

Another weight to bear.

* * *

_"Tremendous amounts of talent are lost to our society just because that talent wears a skirt." Shirley Chisholm

* * *

_

Another two hours slogged by—the weather seemed hell-bent on making their night of vigilance frost bitten and soaked to the bone. Alex had found herself an eve of one of the adult bookstores to huddle under, clutching her leather coat around her thin frame and shifting her weight from leg to leg, trying to get some feeling back in her toes.

With expert eyes, she scanned the pickings up and down the street.

_Wino passed out in a trash heap—I wonder how many parts of his anatomy will be frozen off by morning. _

_Couple of working girls on each corner—you'd get more work if ya lost a couple'a pounds sweetie._

_Bar's are gettin' plenty of business, nothin' like staying in with a nice watered-down whiskey to warm your insides. _

Alex flipped an errant strand out of her eyes as she casually turned to the other "lady of the evening" a few paces from her. The girl couldn't have been more than twenty; with honey-blonde curls and innocent cherub cheeks. She was thin, painfully thin from too many things shot in her vines and not enough put in her stomach. Alex had noticed she'd gotten a few hits tonight, but no buyers.

Alex herself, had received a few drunken passes, but she'd tactfully turned them down. She needed to be out in the open, watching. It would take too much man power off the surveillance to have Alex bring unsuspecting patrons off into an alley somewhere, have them carted off by her fellow officers, and then get back to her post in time.

Blondie passed by Alex, giving her a knowing "_this is one'a those nights_" smirks—continuing to a shadowed area just beyond the alley next to the bar.

_She'd be the mark he'd be looking for_, Alex thought to herself.

Several of his victims had been youthful, innocent-looking hookers - the kind who'd just arrived in the Big Apple and the hardness of life on the street hadn't worn them down yet. And while Alex fit the victim's standard of being slim and athletic—she had a feeling her "innocent" look had waned long ago.

Alex checked her watch—knowing full well that every minute ticking by meant this guy could be strangling another woman, and they were no closer to catching him. Something cold twisted in her chest—like a nervous butterfly crossed with a coiled up viper. It was Bobby—it was as if she was tuned into his radio station, only it was his emotions coming over the air waves. He was pacing somewhere in the darkness, probably with his arms crossed—maybe rubbing the back of his neck angrily. Alex wondered if he was muttering under his breath yet.

If something didn't happen soon, all the built-up anxiety, all the '_I should have done this, I should have done that's_'—they were all going to erupt in a torrent. And she didn't know if she would be able to patch up his holes this time. This case had taken so much of him with it, there wasn't much left to hold the dam together.

The bar door opened, and a faded orange jacket caught Alex's eye. She eyed him casually, as he stood next to the curb, lighting a cigarette. He was short, maybe five eight or nine; shaggy, cropped dirty-blonde hair and when he turned and looked her way, Alex was chilled to see his eyes were so pale blue they almost had no color at all. He looked her up and down for a moment, as if appraising her…and as if on cue, Bobby's voice hummed in her ear.

"Heads up."

"He fits the height and the build," James said.

"Give it a second, let's see what he does," Goren said, his eyes twitching from Orange Jacket-guy to Eames. He was about fifteen feet from her, but if this was Digger, that was way too damn close for Goren's comfort. He seemed to be looking her up and down, assessing if she was worth his time.

Bobby moved out of his doorframe post, carefully edging his way to the curb. He had to get closer. His vast mental catalog was filing and photographing every nuance of Orange Jacket-guy, and the more he stared at Eames, the tighter Bobby's chest seemed to constrict around his heart.

_He's lingering too long…too long_. _He fits the profile…same body-build…doesn't look like he's wearing a disguise this time. Damn it! He smokes. All of the victims had cigarette burns on their arms and legs. _

_This is him…it-it's got to be him!_

Alex knew Bobby was about to snap his leash—this guy was eyeing her a little too long for comfort.

"Easy, Bobby," she muttered softly, sensing his agitation on the air. "Just wait."

Even though she'd whispered below the mic's range to receive, Bobby felt the tension in his muscles lighten somewhat. Alex was willing him to calm down, and he swallowed thickly. He was still to far away to do anything if this guy made a break for Alex.

Then, Alex Eames did something that made her partner's heart freeze in terror. She walked - taking smooth, confident strides - right up to the guy. She smiled, keeping an eye on his hands in his pockets.

He seemed nervous, as though her approaching him wasn't what he expected.

"Mind if I bum a light off you, buddy?" she asked.

Orange Jacket looked down, "Uh…sure."

He reached out with a crumpled pack and shook out a smoke for Eames. She took it, and allowed him to light it for her—she only pretended to take a drag, blowing the smoke out immediately.

Bobby's head was exploding with all the horrible scenarios that could come from the sight of his partner, his _ALEX_, talking and walking with who he was sure was Digger. He could have a gun, and shoot her before they could even get the call out to go in. He could push her into an alley and do God-knows-what to her before he could get to there!

Bobby's teeth began to unconsciously grind, causing the muscle in his cheek to quiver. _What the fuck was she thinking…approaching this guy!_

The mic lines remained silent, as every ear was glued to Eames chatting-up the suspect—and Bobby trying to listen to any subtle clues he might give away in conversation—while battling the vicious images of his partner joining the other six victims on the coroner's slab.

"Those things will kill you, ya'know," Orange Jacket guy said as he turned from Alex to continue on to the alley beyond the bar. Alex smiled wryly, and dropped the cigarette, snuffing it out.

"Well, that was ten minutes of my life that I'll never get back." Eames sighed. She was hoping to tempt the guy, make him do or say something that might indicate that he was Digger. All in all, this guy seemed about as exciting as counting rain drops on a wind shield.

Bobby released the breath he didn't know he was holding, when Jacket guy walked away from his partner. This guy didn't give anything away, didn't try anything—and Bobby was torn between being thankful Alex wasn't walking side-by-side with the Brooklyn Strangler, and being soul-sick that Digger had probably slipped through their—_his_—fingers, yet again. He had begun to seriously question his abilities during this case—that maybe, just maybe, he wasn't the best man for this job anymore.

"What was all that crap about Brooklyn's soil, Eames?" Brueteli asked. "He one of those 'greenie-beanies' or something?"

Bobby's thoughts worked themselves out of the fog and back into the present.

His brows furrowed, "What soil crap, Brueteli?"

"I don't know, Mr. Personality down there was telling Eames, he hates Brooklyn in the winter. Somethin' about it being hard."

Eames narrowed her eyes, stopping in her tracks as she cut Brueteli off, "Hard to work the soil - to work in the mulch in his gardens."

Bobby froze in step with Alex, looking up towards her from across the street. His head found its usual, left-side tilt as his deep brown eyes took that far away gaze he got when he was putting all the little pieces together. Goren waggled his head somewhat - his thoughts must have seriously been on other things (like worrying about Alex) for him not to catch that soil remark.

After a moment, he added, "They were buried shallow…only a couple of feet down."

"He couldn't get the shovel through the ice-cold ground," Alex muttered in Goren's same hushed tone.

The other detective were listening to this little private exchange between Goren and Eames—as though they were standing side by side, finishing each other's sentences. James and Breuteli exchanged befuddled glances, before James cleared his throat into his mic.

"Uhmmm…do you two want to share with the class, here? This inside track you guys seem to be on?" James asked.

Alex jerked her head back toward the alley, "Have you guys seen Blondie in a while?"

"No." answered James and Brueteli.

"Not since she passed you," chimed in Howser.

Bobby was still standing with his knuckles on his lower lip, when Alex stated she was going to head down the alley to look for Blondie. He was jolted from his thoughts in an instant.

"Eames! No, wait…we- _I_ think Orange Jacket guy was _Digger_!" He started walking quickly toward James and Brueteli's car, "Did you guys see where he turned?"

So engrossed in his thoughts of Eames and his seeming failure on this case, Bobby hadn't even seen which street Digger turned down. He reached the heap of a car with James and Brueteli looking up at him from the windows.

Neither one of them had continued to watch Orange Jacket guy after he left Eames.

"Howser! What did you see?" Bobby was becoming frantic. He fidgeted back and forth—looking like an enormous, broad shouldered, schizophrenic-hobo talking to imaginary people in his coat sleeve.

"We were watching another potential guy after Orange Coat started to walk away from Eames. Sorry Goren, we didn't think he was a danger."

Goren let out a clenched-fisted snarl—one that caused the two detectives nearest him to stare wide-eyed and mute. Over the commotion of the detectives spouting-off at each other about who was supposed to be watching what—Goren moved away from the car, pinching the bridge of his nose in weary frustration. Brueteli stepped out of the car.

"Hey! Where's Eames?"

Goren whirled around, dark eyes probing the eerily quiet streets for his partner. She was nowhere in sight. Goren's chest began to burn with every breath—his heart pounded in his ears.

"Eames!" He tried in the mic, "Eames, what's your position?"

Nothing. All was still—the silence deafening.

"Alex!" Bobby's voice boomed over the mics, causing the other detectives to flinch as they stepped from the car, with Howser and Tempson already on their way out of the ramshackle hotel room.

With his long, disjointed gate, Goren sprinted across the street; pausing in the last place he'd seen Alex—in front of the bar. She was out of his sight, out of his reach—in that horrible place where he might not be able to get to her in time. He spun around in a circle, a hand running erratically over his hair and down a gritty cheek.

Bobby called again and again over the mic—only static was his reply.

Then, just as he was about to rip his mic out of his ear, pull his gun and go screaming up and down the street like a madman for his partner—he heard something that turned his stomach to liquid, and fixed his heart painfully in his throat.

It was a scream—a woman's scream. And it was coming from somewhere in the pitch-black shadows.

TBC….

Please READ and REVIEW! What do YOU think?

Ah yes, return of the cliffie-queen! I hope that was a good set up. You wouldn't believe how much distraction I went through to get this chapter out. Next chapter should be easier—angst factor is going up as well. This story is hopefully going to be on Bobby more than "Push, Pull" was, and on the Goren/Eames connection. Let me know what ya think!

Stay Tuned!


	2. Murphy's Law: Multiplied

**Disclaimer: **I do not own anything within the Law and Order universe, and I am not making a dime from any of this. If I did own them, my fiancé and I would be on an extended early honeymoon right now! The plot, themes and any OC making debuts belong to Alamo Girl, aka me!

**A/N:** Glad to see I have some fans back::squeal: Keep in mind that Bobby has been on an emotionally excruciating case that has been kicking his ass—so if he does some things in this chapter that Goren normally would be too controlled to do—hey, this is fan fiction and he's had a REALLY bad three months, okay? Enjoy!

**"The Energy of Nothing" **by Alamo Girl ©

**Part 2 "Murphy's Law: Multiplied" **

_"There is rarely a creative man who does not pay a high price for the divine spark of his great gifts." Carl Jung_

_"Men fear silence as they fear solitude, because both give them a glimpse of the terror of life's nothingness." Andre Maurois_

Murphy's Law states, "Anything that _can_ go wrong… _will_ go wrong." That is probably over simplifying it—as in actuality, one could say "If there is the slightest chance that your plans, dreams, or work-day in general, can get fucked six-ways-to-Sunday—well, you can pretty much guarantee it definitely _WILL_ get screwed-up horribly."

At least, that's the way it seems to Bobby Goren, on this gloomy, rainy night in the ghetto of adult bookstores and flee-trap bars. Chasing Digger all over Brooklyn for three months—and having the little piss-ant slip through his famous fingers, while snorting in triumph and flicking lit cigarettes in his face—had effectively turned Goren into a seething, ranting, bear of a man, even in the squad room. He was low on energy, sleep had been almost non-existent, and on top of all that, his whirlwind mind seemed to be on chronic overload-meltdown. And when Goren had taken a moment to sit calmly down at his desk—while the other detectives and even Deakins took the opportunity to beat a hasty retreat from erupting 'Mount Goren'—he would see Alex watching him, patiently. He could see the question in her eyes, _"How much more of this can you take, Bobby Goren?"_

Honestly, he didn't know.

The sleet was still drifting down—as though God, himself, was weeping frozen tears. They mingled with the sludge and grime of the street in front of the triple X bookstore Detective Goren had last seen his partner, Eames, standing. Goren's eyes scanned wildly around in the darkness—searching for the source of the blood-curdling scream that had pierced the silence.

The other detectives jogged up to Goren's position, Breuteli and James radioed the other two team members to go to the other end of the street, in case Orange Jacket guy had taken a short-cut behind the buildings and doubled back.

"Goren!" James tried, watching the towering hobo whip himself into a near-frenzy, "Goren, which way do ya'wanna take?"

Bobby stopped and stared at James as though the man had spontaneously grown two heads. He'd jolted Bobby out of his chaotic thought processes so suddenly, it took him a moment to register what James had said.

Then he snapped back into it… _find Eames…split up…find Eames and Digger!_

"Breuteli! Take the far alley closest to the bodega. The way sound bounces off these walls, it's …it's hard to tell which one…" Goren voice faded as an image of Eames—lying in a shallow grave, her throat marred by vicious strangulation marks—her eyes, open and seeing into nothingness. They seemed to scream to him_—'Why couldn't you find me? Why did you let me and all the others, down_?'

Bobby forcibly shook his head to banish the image; James was still watching him expectantly. "You and me James, we'll take this alley next to the bookstore."

As he and James started down the their alley, Breuteli, relishing the idea to take out on his own for once— sprinted down the sidewalk, gun drawn.

Goren, not giving the rookie a second thought, pulled out a Mag-Light and pointed the beam of light down the murky alleyway.

James lingered at the mouth of the corridor, looking back toward Breuteli's retreating form.

"Shouldn't one'a us be with the kid? This is his first bust on stakeout and…"

"If he couldn't hack it, he wouldn't be on Major Case's team, James," Goren growled, his voice low and dangerous, as he walked cautiously, looking behind boxes and dumpsters for his missing partner and praying she would just come back over the mic as if nothing was wrong.

"Besides," he muttered, "he's the least of my worries right now."

-----

_"Sanity calms. Madness is more interesting." Bertrand Russell_

-----

The smell of mold was the first thing to register in Alex's head—it bit into her nostrils, foul and rotting. That smell coupled with the thunderous pounding of her head, nearly made her stomach rebel on her.

_Some great fucking detective you are Alex, my dear. You hear a scream and go farther down the dark, scary alley with no flashlight—and get cold-cocked on the back of the head. _

She lifted herself up off the moldy box she fallen down on, her head spinning and her vision blurry.

"Could be worse…I could be dead," she muttered angrily under her breath.

"Just wait," murmured the icy voice of the man in the orange jacket. "I can fix that for you."

He was kneeling just off to Alex's right—bent over the prostrate body of Blondie, sprawled out on her back. Her neck was bent backward at a disgusting angle, as though her head had been twisted and wrenched like a stubborn jar lid. Digger ran his hand, almost lovingly, down her chest—over her breasts and down her stomach. Her eyes were half-lidded—sleepily gazing toward Alex. She was dead…they'd been too late.

Rage filled Alex from her toes up as she looked a round for her bag…for her gun. It was nowhere in sight. _Damn it_!

Digger pulled Blondie up to cradle her torso in his arms—he looked over at Alex from above the dead girl's blonde tresses.

"I didn't think you needed your bag anymore, sweet thing. You interrupted a private moment between me and Blondie here."

"There are cops crawling over every inch of this block, Digger." Alex's voice held a slight tremor of fear. She was alone, in the dark and unarmed. "There's no way in Hell you're getting outta here."

Digger slowly stood, still holding Blondie's limp body in his arms like a possessive child with their favorite doll. His smile was feral, as he looked Eames over thoroughly.

"A cop, I see. Explains the earpiece I pulled outta' your ear after I hit you. I should have known…"

Digger shook his head somewhat, then, almost in a whisper to himself, he said, "He didn't tell me about…he should have-" But he stopped himself mid sentence. Alex was staring hard at him.

After a beat, his sadistic grin returned, as if his thoughts had just shifted from past to present.

"Hmmm...an impressive trophy to add to my collection of little girls," he said.

Alex's eyes grew wide—she swallowed the bile that rose in her throat at his statement and the sick-sight of Blondie's broken neck and head lolling backward, like chicken whose neck had just been rung.

Just then, footsteps echoed down the alleyway—fast. Digger shifted the dead body in his arms, so that she would shield him somewhat. Alex lurched forward a little too quickly, causing her vision to flicker-out on her—sending her backward against the brick wall. She heard a click—the unmistakable click of a hammer being pulled back on a gun.

-----

Breuteli turned down the alley, running almost blindly into the darkness. He reached into his pocket for the mini-mag light, and the little beam of light that it would afford him. He trotted brashly down the alley and called for Alex.

"Detective Eames! Where are you?"

Alex could see the flashlight beam joggling down the alley, coming toward her position. Holding her spinning head, she began to sit forward again to signal the new comer. Something flipped in her gut when she heard him call her name. It wasn't Bobby. For a moment, Alex didn't know if she was happy Bobby wasn't the one barreling down this death-trap into the waiting arms of a serial killer with a gun hidden somewhere—or if she was disappointed it wasn't Bobby coming to rescue her from the shadows.

_What a stupid thing to be worrying about at a time like this!_ She glanced at Digger, who, in the dim light cast by some lighted sign farther down the alley, looked straight into her eyes and slowly shook his head. She couldn't see where his gun was, and he was telling her not to say a word. For all she knew… said gun was pointed at her head.

Breuteli's light finally landed on Digger and Blondie, causing the kid to skid to a halt a few yards from them. He raised his gun—the muzzle trembled a bit, and Digger caught it.

"NYPD!" Breuteli shouted. "Put your hands up, NOW!"

------

Goren and James were coming up the walk about to turn down the second alley, when Breuteli's distinctive voice rang out through the street and their earpieces. Goren's stomach leapt up into his throat. Was Eames alright? The kid has Digger cornered…he can't handle it alone!

Digger smiled innocently at the kid—his eyes catching the waver in the rookie's voice, the whites of his eyes.

"First time you've pulled a gun on a suspect, kid?" he asked.

Breuteli stared, "No. Let the girl go and put your hands up!"

Digger smiled wider, and Alex watched in horror as the muzzle of a silver revolver peeked out from under Blondie's arm. The body was covering Digger's movements, so the kid wouldn't see him bringing the gun to aim. It was as if sound had been muted…like hitting the 'slow' button on a DVD player, and everybody's movements become sluggish and over pronounced.

Alex watched as Breuteli turned his head to look at her—maybe checking if she was okay—her mouth opened to yell "_Gun_". Only her voice was drowned out by the explosion of the gun in Digger's hand. Shock and surprise filled the rookie's eyes, as he looked down at his torn-open chest—blood spilling down his jeans. He fell, and all Alex could do was watch him hit the ground—his gun falling to the side.

At that same exact moment—as if the whole thing was some gruesomely choreographed dance—Goren rounded the corner and saw Breuteli crumple to the ground.

Digger let the lifeless body of the hooker fall to the ground, like a piece of one of his disguises that had served its purpose. He turned his attention to Alex, huddled in the corner, as Goren came up beside the body of the fallen officer. He looked down at the kid, staring blankly at the blood spattered all over his chest.

_He was just a kid…only a kid. His first time out with the big boys. Probably wanted to be a cop all his life. _

_Wait, didn't he have an older brother in Narcotics_?

All these seemingly meaningless and random thoughts flooded Bobby's mind as he looked down at Breuteli—even as James' garbled screaming into his radio for an ambulance could be heard in the background. Bobby's eyes found Alex, her fear riding a current into his heart. He followed her line of sight straight to Digger—the monster who had eluded their grip for three months. The one who'd taken all those women, burying them alone in the cold earth—who'd just now, taken the life of a young officer. Bobby had sent him down this alley to his death—and his vision washed over red with rage. Blind, consuming rage. And now, the monster's sights were set on Alex… _his Alex!_

With slow, precise, animal grace—Goren lifted his service pistol chest level. Digger kept his gun hand down, but his eyes flicked between the small police woman pressed up against the brick wall, and the hulking beast of a cop—now aiming a nine-millimeter at his eyes. He studied Goren's eyes for a moment—and a bolt of fear jolted through his body for the first time ever.

Alex watched the agonizing slow motion spectacle—Digger made a movement, just a small one—and then thunder echoed in her ears as Goren…her partner, Robert Goren—pumped two rounds into Digger's chest. Thick, red plumes of blood and muscle burst forth from his back as the bullets ripped through him. He shuttered under the blows, then finally crumpling like a rag-doll to the ground. Alex froze—her eyes pinned to Diggers, as she watched the light go out within them.

She looked up to Bobby, who was standing stark still, staring at Digger's body. She could feel the rage pulsating off of him—it nearly made her dizzy again. His eyes were glaring from under his brows in deadly fury…but then, they softened into what could only be described as sudden confusion. She picked herself off the ground, as the sirens were heard wailing in the background.

When a call goes in that an officer is down, every cop in the Five Burroughs comes out of the woodwork. Part of the brotherhood of the boys in blue—take care of your own.

Alex edged slowly up to Goren. He was wound so tight, she feared a sudden move might set him off—and he still had his gun trained on Digger's motionless body. His breath was coming in ragged heaves, the nose of his gun trembling.

"Bobby?" Alex tried softly, watching his eyes as they began to blink rapidly. He was processing what had happened—the "on" switch had flipped the breaker back on in his mind. One slow blink later and Alex knew he was trying to regroup. She'd seen him do precisely that, too many times before—when something or someone did something that struck a blow to his inner psyche. Bobby closed his eyes for a moment; his head darted to one side, almost birdlike.

She put a hand on his massive arm, feeling the biceps taught to the snapping point.

"Bobby, it's over. It's okay…c'mon…put the gun down. A bus is on the way, they'll be here in a second." Her tone was soft, but firm. She had to get through to him—though she'd never seen him like this. Alex had to let him know she was "there". She had to bring him back to the hear-and-now.

The gun fell to his side, his gaze softening even more as he tilted his head down toward Alex.

"Are—are you okay? D-did he..hurt you?" His voice was almost child-like, soft—the shock of what he'd done still evident.

Alex rubbed the back of her head and snorted softly, "Yeah well, let's just say I won't be riding any roller-coasters for a while. I'm okay, nothing an ice pack, dozen aspirin, and a hot bubble bath won't fix."

Bobby just stared at her - no smile, no indication that anything of what she'd said had registered.

"He…hit you…" he breathed. Those eyes were staring right through her, but Alex managed not to shutter under his gaze.

"I said I'm okay, Goren," Alex said a little more firmly. Bobby still hadn't snapped together yet.

James was holding Breuteli's head in his lap, trying in vain to convince himself his young partner would be alright. Goren stood looking down at the sight—the older cop had tears running down his face—and a numbness set in on Goren's soul. He'd done this… this was his fault. Alex could almost hear Bobby's thoughts, but she didn't try to say anything.

Nothing could be said.

So they stood there, side by side like always—watching a distraught veteran cop be pulled away from his deceased partner by the paramedics.

----

The street was lit up in flashing reds and blues—the ambulances, cop cars, fire trucks and not surprisingly, the press—vied for position at the mouth of the alley. Alex stood at the gate of one of the ambulances, letting a medic tend to her bruised head. All the while, her eyes stayed on her partner—who was standing off to the side, head down and arms hanging at his sides. He wasn't fidgeting, wasn't pacing or gesturing—and everyone seemed to read the signage written all over him.

"Do Not Approach".

Even the paramedics gave him one look, and reasoned it might be better for their own health if they let him be. The body bags passed by him, and his eyes never moved from the ground. Alex's heart wrenched in her chest—Bobby's anguish was unlike anything she'd felt. It was consuming!

"What the hell happened here, Alex?" Deakins' voice resonated through the din that set back in on Alex as she was snapped out of her thoughts.

She looked at him, "The hooker had been his target all along. Bobby caught on that the guy I'd bummed a cigarette off of, in the orange jacket, was Digger. I followed him… heard a scream—then it was lights out."

Deakins looked over at Goren, hard, "So he broke cover too soon—sent a rookie off, _alone_, down to the far end of the street with no back up?"

Alex didn't answer.

"Did Digger point his weapon at you, while Detective Goren held him at gun-point?" he asked.

"Uhh…it was a little fuzzy, what with my head nearly being cracked open," she replied dryly, "and it was dark, so I don't…"

"Yes or no, Detective. Did the perp point his gun or make any threatening gestures toward you while Goren had him at gun point?" the Captain interjected with force.

"No. He didn't aim his gun at me, but he did make a move," she answered.

Deakins said, "James stated Goren didn't ID himself as a cop or anything… he just blew the bastard away when he twitched. He said Digger didn't make a move to threaten either one of you."

Alex glared, setting her jaw. "That piece of shit snapped that hooker's neck, sir! He'd killed six other girls… that we know of! He shot Detective Breuteli right in front of me…he killed a cop! And he would'a killed me too, if Goren hadn't done something."

Deakins softened, "I know that, Alex. But when James gives his statements, and in conjunction with what the other guys heard on the radio com links, it's not gonna' look good for Bobby. He didn't ID himself, he didn't tell Digger to do anything, he just…he just shot him. The Chief of D's isn't going to like that. It's going to sound like Goren broke cover too soon, got a rookie shot and blew away a suspect—like some _rogue cop_ or something."

Alex ran a shaky hand through her hair—she knew the Brass had just been waiting for Goren to step over the line—do something to give them cause to suspend him. They loved his arrest rates (actually, they loved the way his arrest rates made it look like they were doing _their _jobs really well), but she'd seen them take offence to his tactless way of letting them know politicking wasn't high on his priority lists. He didn't want to "play ball" their way, and he wasn't one to suffer fools lightly.

And Alex was very aware, that some of the things the Chief of Detectives, Deputy Mayors and the rest of the high-ranking muckity-mucks wanted the Major Case squad to over-look, were inane attempts to cover their own asses, or the asses of their high-dollar supporters. Goren simply didn't work that way. If you were dirty, it didn't matter to him who you knew in the mayor's office or what big-wig had his fingers in your pockets. But, she also knew, the Brass would come down the food-chain to get at Goren—and that meant pressure on Deakins.

She sighed, and then cocked an eyebrow up at Deakins.

"Guess this would be a bad time to mention that Digger had talked like he had an accomplice..."

Deakins' eyes were hard, granite, as he looked into Eames' weary face.

"Oh, for cryin' out loud," he said in frustration as he turned to leave. "When it rains…"

-----

After the paramedics had finished and CSU was cleaning up the scene, Deakins had asked Alex and Bobby to meet him at the office. ADA Carver was to meet them there as well, and Alex could only imagine what kind of tirade they would have to endure from his honey-smooth voice. Bobby had disappeared by the time Alex had found a car to take to the office. He must have hopped a cab or something, though no one had really seen him leave. For a man of his stature, Goren had the uncanny knack of appearing and disappearing without anyone noticing. True to his chameleon–like abilities, Robert Goren could be a huge, fidgety, awkward child—pushing suspect's personal boundaries and bending at ninety-degree angles to catch eyes. Or he could stay quietly in the background, soaking up information and cataloging it away for use at a later date. But these were only a few of the qualities Alex Eames thought made her partner one of the best detectives in New York City.

In truth, there were too many of Bobby Goren's qualities that had managed to work themselves into endearment with her—and she honestly couldn't imagine her life without him in it. She didn't want to.

As she entered the bull-pen, in the dimness of the deserted office, Alex caught sight of Bobby's familiar broad shoulders, slumped as he leaned against the window sill in Deakins' office. He was facing the window, arms spread out against the sill bracing him and his head hung down— the picture of Atlas with the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Alex shivered. She'd seen that stance once before…after Nicole burrowed in like a parasite into his armor and chewed on every weakness and frailty with in him from his past. He was wrung out, spent.

Deakins was perched on the side of his desk, massaging the bridge of his nose. Carver leaned against the opposite wall—arms crossed in a defiant, unyielding fashion. Alex felt a twinge of panic—something had been decided while she'd been stuck in traffic. She watched Bobby for a moment—but he didn't move or even acknowledge her presence. But she knew he felt her near, it was just how their connection worked.

Carver broke the silence with his smooth, melodic tenor, "I'm sorry Detectives, I really wish this whole thing had gone according to plan."

"Plans change…get screwed-up when you're in the field on a stakeout, Mr. Carver," Alex snapped.

Deakins said, "The Chief of Detectives called me. The press is already banging his door down, wanting to know how the NYPD is going to handle," he paused, glancing at Goren's back, "this horrible mistake."

Alex looked down. Her head was throbbing now. "They're suspending Goren, aren't they?"

Deakins and Carver both looked at each other, then looked guiltily at the floor. Alex glared at both of them—while Deakins stood and paced around his desk running both hands through his silver hair in frustration.

"Damn it! Goren saved your life, James' and probably a hell-of-a-lot of other girls! But the Brass wants someone to pay…and…since it was Goren who was running to sting…" Deakins said, trailing off because he didn't want to finish his sentence.

"I was my fault." Bobby's voice was so low; the quietness of it nearly startled everyone in the room. Alex looked at him incredulously, although he didn't turn to face them.

"No, it was an accident! Hasn't the Chief of Detectives ever heard of people making mistakes?" She was becoming frantic. "_I_ went down the alley after Digger! _I_ was the cop who got knocked-out and laid-out there helpless on the ground! They should be suspending _me_ right along with him—I put myself in unnecessary danger!"

Alex's eyes were wide with anger and fear. But it wasn't fear for herself…it was for the man at the window. The man who was but a mere pile of rubble, compared to the mountain he usually was.

"That's not the way the Deputy Mayor sees it," said Carver. "They see Goren as lead officer - responsible for his team - and he sent a rookie cop off by himself. He let the case get personal, and two people paid the price."

He wasn't just speaking about the young officer, whose bright career in law enforcement had been tragically cut short. Carver also meant the frail young woman with the honey-blonde curls. She was young, she still might've had a chance to get off the streets—be the person she was meant to be. That chance was gone now.

Alex felt like she was going insane. How could they blame Bobby for this? He didn't plan for it to go down like that! She knew, he broke cover to go after her; she deserved to get punished right along with him.

Deakins heaved a sigh that started at his toes, "I'm sorry Goren. There's nothing I can do right now… they made the choice. It's over my head."

Bobby turned slowly around to face them. Alex swallowed hard—Bobby's eyes had no light in them anymore, no spark that she'd grown to expect when she stared into those depthless orbs.

His face was somber, as he stared blankly ahead—fishing his badge out of his pocket, and his gun off his belt. He placed them on Deakins desk with a thud that seemed to echo with finality. Alex almost went to him, to do something to make him feel like he wasn't alone—to touch him and have him look into her eyes, seeing the knowledge that they would fix this together. But she stopped herself half-way—as Bobby raised his dejected eyes to hers—a look that emphatically said, "_Don't_."

So she pulled back, swallowing the hurt and fear.

"It's just for a couple of weeks, Goren. Just until we can get this sorted out upstairs." Deakins almost sounded pleading as he too, was disturbed by his best detective's demeanor. He'd never seen Goren shutdown like this, not even after Croyden's death.

Alex watched helplessly as Bobby walked out of the office and to the elevators—his eyes half-lidded and hopeless.

She turned on Deakins and Carver. This was too ridiculous…Bobby couldn't be suspended! She raised her hands in the air, cutting them back and forth, as though she were trying to banish the thought from her head. Finally she managed to force a thought, a sentence for her mouth—since the inconceivableness of what had just happened, muddled her brain into a stall.

Then, in almost Goren-esque fashion, she shook her head slightly and sliced the air with a hand to punctuate her point.

"This can't happen. You cannot suspend Bobby Goren from being a detective! It's all he knows! It's who he _is_! It cannot be taken away from him!" She almost yelled—perhaps in the hope that her words would reach the one ear that most needed the conviction that hummed in her tone.

But Goren was already on his way, into the darkness of the night…alone.

------

"Everyone has a talent. What is rare is the courage to follow the talent to the dark place where it leads." Erica Jong

-------

TBC…..

PLEASE READ and REVIEW! Let me know what YOU THINK!

OK, I really hope that this chapter doesn't suck like a Hoover, because this was with out a doubt, the hardest chapter to get through. Trying to keep the scenario suspenseful and yet trying to figure out a way Bobby could get suspended and still have it believable…wheeew… I'm tired! Sorry for the delay too, real life didn't just step in, it busted down the door!

Next Chapter soon! Stay Tuned!


	3. Slouching Toward Bethlehem

**Disclaimer: **See previous chapters. Don't own them…never did.

**To Piaffe417: **Oh thank you SO much for reviewing and catching those tensemistakes, darling! I should have caught those mistakes, just goes to show you how distracted I've been while writing this. Apologies all around! **Piaffe417**, as always, you inspire me with your Criminal Intent work, and getting reviews (especially good ones) from a writer of your caliber—ALWAYS gives my day a huge dose of ecstatic, run-around-the-office-cheering glee! (Okay, that sounded kind of weird) So let me just say—it really gives me an enormous boost…so Thank You Heartily for reviewing. Smoochies

**A/N**: And SMOOCHIES and chocolate to _everyone_ who has read and reviewed, especially the ones who've returned to read more of my work. You have no idea what it means to get return readers! This chapter is going to go in places some of you might not think Goren is capable of. All I can say is that Goren might be a little OOC, but please keep and open mind about what I have him do. You all know I like to torture the characters—and the dark side of what happens when you take away the one thing a person is meant to do, is the focus of my story. Please keep in mind…when the walls come down, inhibitions are turned loose! Glad you like the quotes; I have fun researching and pulling them together!

_--- Title of this Chapter is from an **Angel** episode, which seemed appropriate for my story. I do not own the Angle episode of this name, just borrowing the wording of the title.---_

**"The Energy of Nothing" **by Alamo Girl ã

Part 3 "Slouching Toward Bethlehem" 

_"Darkness, darkness, be my blanket—cover me with the endless night—take away the pain of knowing." The Youngbloods_

_"About halfway through the course of my pathetic life, I woke and found myself in a stupor in some dark place. I'm not sure how I ended up there; I guess I had taken a few wrong turns." Canto I- Dante's Inferno_

Most people, if they're lucky, will never truly fathom the feeling of being in total, utter darkness. The feeling that slinks into one's chest—slithering up around the soul like an ethereal snake and ever-so slowly constricting every last ray of light out of that soul. The emptiness that remains—choking and heavy, until all that's left is to crawl into some pit and pull the lid in over you. Bobby Goren knows those feelings all too well, flailing in the blackness without direction. He's felt this before, only to a somewhat lesser degree—when his partner and foundation, Alex Eames temporarily left his life to pursue the feat of giving birth to her sister and brother-in-law's child. That time, the shadows of doubt and fear loomed behind him, but only grazed his neck with great, spindly fingers— reminding Bobby that he was near the precipice, just inches from falling into the abyss.

But his job was there, he had a purpose and he understood what he had to do. So, in her absence, fumbling and merely muddling his way through the cases with his inadequate (and stifling) temporary partner—Goren was able to continue. His job, seeking justice and finding the tiniest pieces to the complex myriad of puzzles that made up the criminal psyche—kept Goren in the game until Alex returned to him. And it was then, that he realized two things: One - that being Detective Robert Goren was invariably the only thing he could possible be. And two - without Alex Eames at his side—giving him her quiet approval and support, reading his almost telepathic communications as to the next step in the investigative "dance" they do so well, feeling her loyalty and understanding every time a twist arises that makes Bobby second-guess himself—Goren simply ceases to "be".

But now, his job had been taken away, and he was unable to do the very things to which his gifts and talents had been honed to fine points for. He'd been torn from his partner, his lightning rod and anchor—and Bobby felt himself plunging deeper and deeper into his own Hell.

So, it was unsurprising, that Bobby found himself trudging down the icy, slick sidewalks of West 43rd heading toward Times Square—hands shoved into the pockets of his brown leather coat, and head tilted downward as scores of people passed him by, going to their favorite nightspots or to warm, inviting beds. He'd had a chance to catch a cab home to change from his hobo garb—choosing a pair of dark blue jeans, black button-up cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled up, brown leather coat and thick soled Doc Martin-style boots that seemed to add an extra three inches to his towering six foot four frame.

Bobby's entire body felt numb—as though the bite of the wind couldn't penetrate the air of hopelessness that haloed him. His eyes—usually alert and scanning, stayed fixated on the path ahead of him. His path into his own self-deprecating Hell. His mind, however, continued to roll through scenarios. The planning sessions in the squad room, the infinite number of psychology books and notes he'd jotted down in his omnipresent brown notebook; all of the scenes of the past few weeks flipped by the projection reel in his mind—trying to figure out where exactly he screwed-the-pooch on this case.

_He left clues… little pieces of himself at every crime scene. He-he knew someone… would be profiling him…trying to get into his head._

_Had he gotten advance notice on our progress? _

_From where…?_

_Everything he left… the cigarette burns, patterns of ligature marks…everything was different just enough to piss us off, but not enough that_—Bobby had to sidestep quickly around a raucous couple who'd obviously downed a case of Crown, and were now about to experiment with the methods of having sex up against a street sign. Bobby cast them a glare as he continued thumbing through his mental filing cabinet, looking back over this case. He lumbered forward in his gangly gait, brows knitted in frustration.

_We should have had that bastard weeks ago…what was I missing that I didn't see…that I should have seen_.

_Should have seen it_ _sooner, then none of this would have happened_…his pace slowed somewhat, his eyes closed for a few moments.

The image of Brueteli falling to the ground took over his mind's eye—his chest ripped open, with that horrible look in his eyes Goren had seen before. The look of confusion and shock, as if he was pleading with Goren to tell him why this had to happen to _him_ of all people - burned itself into his memory. Then, the sensation of unbridled rage washed over Bobby, like the first wave of radiated heat enveloping one's skin when one steps too close to an open flame.

_I'm the one who dangled Alex out there like…a worm on a hook. _

_I put her in the cross-airs, while I hung back on the sidelines…and when she disappeared…and th-the scream_- he stopped and ran both hands through his curly hair. Bobby opened his eyes, though he wasn't really _seeing_. People moved around him, careful to give the big, muttering man a wide birth.

_I told them I didn't want a Task_ _Force… I told them Eames and I could handle it_!

Bobby moved to the wall of the brick building he'd stopped in front of, leaning his broad back up against it heavily and keeping his dark eyes on the ground in front of him. It had stuck him so hard—a freight train slamming in to his psyche. He'd nearly lost Alex, and it was his terror of losing her to the evil hiding in the darkness, that caused him to bolt without realizing the consequences of his actions. He knew Brueteli wasn't ready, and that he was going off into a dangerous situation that most likely would get him killed. That thought _had actually_ slinked into Goren's mind somewhere along the way during the mayhem of the moment. The thing was…he hadn't cared.

Bobby nearly doubled over with the wave of nausea at that realization. He'd sent a rookie off to die, and when push came to shove—the only thing he cared about was Alex's safety. Not stopping Digger from harming another hooker… not even when he watched Brueteli's body fall—and Digger stood, gun in hand, ready to sever the lifeline that connected the Goren and Eames duo—did Robert Goren allow the consequences of his actions weigh on his mind.

Running a large, long-fingered hand through his salt and pepper hair, Bobby tilted his head back. He didn't want to think anymore—he didn't want to "feel". All he wanted was a release; to be unfettered of the knowledge of the evening's loses that thundered within his battered soul. The resonating thud of bass reached Goren's ears, vibrating somewhat within his chest.

Across the street, a red and orange sign caught his eye: _The Tenth Circle._

People were flocking into the entrance, which were two ornate dark, wooden doors. Bobby thought he could make out some of the carvings—body's wrapped together forming a whirl-wind, some in pain some in ecstasy. He stared at the doors, as if contemplating a huge temptation. As though walking through those doors would mean the damnation or salvation of his soul. Slowly, he made his way across the street as the music grew louder. People laughing and dancing could be seen for brief moments when the doors opened, and Bobby felt the eerie sensation he was being pulled there—as though his pleas for respite from his internal torment and loneliness might be answered just inside those doors.

Once he reached the entry, the carvings on the doors became clearer—and more hauntingly frightening. They were, in fact, people - tied and twisted together in some gruesome tornado, tormented. Bobby blinked slowly, a half-hearted smirk tugging the corners of his lips.

_Ironic_, he thought. He pushed the solid door open, entering the large club's inner sanctum. The music's bass thrummed in his chest, but he didn't feel it. Bobby only had one thing on his mind—numb the pain, take it away. And he knew all to well what was the best elixir for sending the over-worked nerve endings and ever-firing neurons into a state of suspension. But it had been a long time—he'd consciously made an effort to stay away.

Now, he was rushing into temptation's arms, willing to do anything to ease his anguish—even if that meant unleashing his demons. Inside the doors, a second gateway lit with neon and black-lights, opened up before him. It took a moment for his eyes to readjust to the smoky darkness, as people moved about languidly on the dance floors and around the bar. If he wasn't concerned with his increasing need to make it over to the solid-wood bar—with its array of beautiful bottles holding that all-important ache-numbing substance—Bobby might have thought this place beautiful…in a Gothic sort of way.

The sign above the second gateway, its lettering illuminated with the eerie effect of the black-light, caught Bobby's eye as he paused. He stood there, reading the words—feeling them resonate within his soul, more than simply understanding their meanings.

_THIS WAY TO THE CITY OF PAIN, ALL LOST SOULS MUST ENTER HERE._

_JUSTICE INSPIRED GOD TO MAKE THIS PLACE, IT IS ETERNAL._

_ABANDON ALL HOPE UPON ENTERING HERE._

A slow, ironic smile re-appeared on Bobby's stubbled face. He, of course, recognized the quote from _Dante's Inferno_, though the appropriateness of it made him chuckle lightly as he entered.

He became a "lost soul" the moment he thought he'd lost… _Alex_…and his hope abandoned the moment his badge and gun clanked down on Deakins' desk. What more could he possibly have to loose now?

----

_"Being a woman is a terribly difficult trade, since it consists of principally dealing with men." Joseph Conrad_

_"As the things in the darkness, that whisper before they feast; They are to be placated and persuaded; They are to beloved and sacrificed to; They are to be prayed to and distrusted." Unknown_

_-----_

Alex Eames angrily flipped a strand of her hair out of her eyes as she descended the steps of her partner's apartment building. She'd called his home phone, his cell phone—if the man had a pager, she'd have called that too, but Bobby was answering none of the above. After her outburst in Deakins' office, she flew out of One Police Plaza in an attempt to catch Bobby. But true to his nature, he disappeared. So, Alex went home long enough to peel out of those ankle-breaking stilettos and ass-short mini-skirt—opting for a pair of comfortable worn blue jeans, and a V-neck sweater with a zip-up front. She'd dialed and re-dialed Bobby's cell phone, almost to the point where she'd mashed the redial button into oblivion.

"Damn it, Bobby! Answer the stupid phone!" she'd hissed as she arrived at his apartment. She'd beat on his door until the neighbors had crooked their heads out of their apartment doors, staring at her in confusion. Alex sent them a no-nonsense glare that said, "_If you know what's good for you, you'll pull your big, fat noses back inside!"_

Now, standing on his stoop, Alex gazed up and down the street. Where would he go in this state? He wouldn't do anything stupid, would he? Alex started walking toward the corner, her lips a thin line of concentration.

_Stupid?__ Define stupid, Alex darling. You know Bobby well enough, he's not going to go blow something up…he's not exactly the "postal" type._

She paused as she came to the corner, noticing the clubs that dotted the sidewalks as she neared Time's Square.

_Then again, you've never seen him like this_. _You've never seen him completely shut down—shut you out._

Alex shuttered. The cold, hollow look in Bobby's eyes, they way he looked when he left Deakins' office, caused Alex's heart to stutter mid-beat as she walked. For the first time in their partnership, Alex didn't know what to do for him—she didn't know how to help.

Alex paused among the beating music from surrounding clubs and bars—fear gripping her when the terrible thought that if she didn't find Bobby, if he did something stupid and she would be too late to help him, inched its way into her soul.

Suddenly, she remembered something from a previous case. Something Bobby had said about what happens when you're not allowed to do what you're meant to do… _"It makes you insane."_ She swallowed thickly, as a sudden flash of panic gripped her. So wrapped up in her thoughts was she, that Alex looked up, and just then, realized where she was. In her days as a Vice cop, she'd patrolled these streets and bars, knew them all well. Though one bar seemed completely out of place.

"The Tenth Circle," she muttered, brushing her hair out of her face. "That's a new one."

As she watched people go in, Alex felt this odd feeling in her gut—as if something was beckoning her, wanting her to enter those haunting doors. Before she knew what her feet were doing, they were carrying her across the street to the club's looming entrance.

Alex read the chilling inscription above the second gate inside, and sighed.

_Yep, this would be the place **he** would pick… of all the bars in the city to end up in…_

Inside, The Tenth Circle was a deceptively large place. The dance floor wound around the seating areas and pool tables; to a back area that was shrouded in smoke and strobe-lights, beyond a far doorway in the back. The bar—a large, mahogany number, with brass fixtures and neon lighting seemed a little old fashioned for the club's neo-gothic air. The music's decibel range seemed to be lessened in the front area, than in the back where Alex could see scores of people (mainly young ones) gyrating together in one mosh-pit style herd. Their bodies were pressed together as though making love in a bedroom was completely out of date. Doing it on a dance floor, with fifty or sixty strangers crushed in around you, was the new thing.

Alex smirked at that thought,… _you couldn't pay me enough_.

Her eyes finally found him, his enormous shoulders slumped forward and his head lowered at the far end of bar. Immediately, Alex made her way to him—her heart brightened at the thought that she had found him safe, no worse for wear. That is, until she got closer to him. Even in the din of the club, with people in various forms of debauchery—Alex felt it emanating off him in waves. It was unlike anything she'd ever felt from him…not anger, not the buzzing intensity of the normal energy field that seemed to surround her partner, like the buzz of a power line. This was something darker, colder.

"You ever hear of answering your cell phone once in a while?" she tried. Though she was glad to see him, something told her she did not want to see his eyes…not now.

Bobby brought a solid tumbler up and downed what had to be straight Scotch in one shot, without a blink.

"Turned it off," he answered. "My way of saying Do Not Disturb."

After a moment, he worked his head to the side, slowly—bringing his eyes to hers in a cold stare, "Guess it didn't work."

Alex fought down the shutter that threatened to shake her to her knees when her partner, whose eyes are normally warm and probing, fixed her with a look that would freeze the Devil's balls off. Bobby's eyes were haunted, and dark—so much darker than the warm brown Alex was accustomed to.

For a moment, she didn't recognize him.

"How long have you been here?" she asked, noting the pronounced slur in his 'S's.

Bobby snorted, reaching back with a large hand that engulfed the new Scotch glass awaiting him.

"Not fucking _near_ long enough, Alex." Again, he slurred her name, drawing out the 'x', almost seductively.

Alex shivered again; this was not something she was prepared to deal with. Not now, not after what they had gone through this night.

_'Upset-Bobby'_ was one thing. '_Agitated or Frustrated-Bobby'_, she'd dealt with countless times. Even _'Slightly Manic-Bobby'_, Alex had seen before and could handle. This Bobby was one she'd never seen before. This Bobby… cold, empty …Drunk-Bobby Goren, was a totally different animal.

Taking a deep breath, she gathered herself into 'Alexandra', the tough detective who had dealt with unruly and uncooperative men plenty of times while she was pulling herself up by the bootstraps.

"You're drunk, Bobby." She put a hand tentatively on his shoulder, "C'mon, let me take you home."

His hand snaked around her waist before she could even blink (so much for alcohol slowing Bobby down), pulling her to his side with the steel strength of his massive arms. Alex's breath caught in her throat, as Bobby swiveled his head around, bringing his face to mere inches with hers. Languidly his eyes traced her features; her face, lips and down to her chest—a seductive smile gracing his lips.

"Home?" he purred. "But I'm having such a good time here…Al-lex. Now that you're here… I think…I could have an even _better_ time."

The smell of Scotch mixed with Bobby's own intoxicating scent, made Alex's mind whirle. Bobby's face came up beside her cheek, as he allowed the tip of his nose to caress her skin. He was breathing her in—holding her tight to him as his hand made its way up her sweater—sending goose-bumps all over her body. He straightened himself on the bar stool, so that he was even with her eyes—pinning her gaze.

"Actually," Bobby murmured, soaking up the feeling of her skin under his fingers—the scent of her flustered anxiety that sent shockwaves through every testosterone-saturated part of his anatomy, "I think, I may _like_ letting you take me home…I think you'll like it too."

_Snap out of it Alex! Where is your tongue, girl! Salivating at the pure magnitude of this version of Bobby Goren and wondering if…_Alex blinked hard a couple of times, trying to pull herself together.

Why was she having this kind of reaction to this "alter" of her beloved partner—who for all intents and purposes is _not_ the man she knows as Bobby Goren? This man was… frightening…feral—and seductively…well…_hot_!

_Get a grip, Alex…this is not Bobby, it's the stress and the pain of what happened. _

_It's the alcohol_.

Bobby pulled her in a little closer—nuzzling her neck ever so lightly, and sending her nerve endings on fire.

"Bobby…I know you're…uh, upset...a-about what happened," she stuttered as his hands continued to roam. One was making its way down her flank to her butt. She squirmed a little against him, trying to break some of the contact. It was the only way her brain was going to be able to form coherent sentences.

"It wasn't your fault, Bobby…Deakins knows that. He'll get the Brass to understand that too."

Bobby pulled back and gave Alex the disdainful look he usually reserved for suspects who'd said something stupid.

"They've been waiting a long time, Alex, for me to fuck up enough to take my badge." Bobby swung his bulk fluidly back around to his drink.

"A man is dead…" his voice lowered, "a _cop_ is dead."

Alex sighed, relieved, as he broke physical contact (though her skin missed the warmth).

"The suspension is not forever. You can't just give up. We're going to figure this out," she said with some force.

Bobby stared at the glass in his hand—all the tension of the past three months culminating within him, like steam pressure under a lid. He wasn't a cop any more, be it two weeks… or two eternities. It was all the same to him. He'd let his captain down, and his partner…Alex.

He'd nearly lost Alex…without ever telling her, anything. Bobby closed his eyes, shutting out any further words from the woman at his side. Despite the Scotch haze, Bobby's ever-cranking mind began to sweep through the scenarios of his life, out of his niche…in a place where he definitely didn't belong. Anger arose in him again—seething and stifling, until his breath was coming in deep heaves. Suddenly, the glass—the thick, solid tumbler in his fist exploded into a thousand shards under the force of his grip.

Alex jumped. Bobby continued to stare at his hand, which was now bleeding, his voice was low and menacing, "Don't you get it, Detective Eames? I'm _done_…even if I ever get my badge back… who will be able to trust or believe anything I do or say?"

He whirled around before she could answer, standing up to loom over his petite companion the way he towered over a suspect in the interrogation room. Alex stepped back, but kept a defiant gaze locked with his piercing stare.

"The _One_ thing," he said, the tone icy, "the "_one_" thing I know…they took it...they took it…"

His voice had gained some of its normal, halting manner—though Alex knew it was from sheer fury, not sobering from the alcohol. Bobby's head suddenly found its patented place to the left, studying Alex in a way that sent chills down her spine. She felt like he was _stalking_ her.

"Go home, _little Alex_. I wouldn't want you to…" he paused and smiled lasciviously down at her, "to bite off more than you can chew tonight."

For a moment, Alex had felt the niggling tingle of fear bubble up inside her gut. It was alien to her—she'd never associated that feeling in the presence of her partner Bobby Goren. Even in the times when Goren seemed to fall into the abyss of a killer's mind—and the defining lines of her partner fuzzed and melded with that of the suspect's in such a way (if she didn't know him as well as she does), she might not be able to tell where psycho-killer ended and Robert Goren began…even then, she didn't fear him. Because, she knew her importance to the Goren/Eames duo, her job as the grounding element or cement.

She would pull him back with a nod or a look, silently conveying the message to come back to the here and now, and step back over the line to her side. And she was the only one he would allow in—the only one to whom he would consent to being pinned by a personal question, and he would always give her a well-thought-out answer because, being forthright with _her_ was ultimately important to him.

But now, the fear receded into resentment and anger.

He'd called her "little" Alex… and that pissed her off.

"_Fuck you_, Goren," she muttered, pressing a napkin into his cut palm and guiding him (albeit unsteadily) to the door.

"I'm not going to leave you here to drown in Scotch and self-pity. _Enough_ with the self-flagellation, already."

----

The decision to walk Bobby home had been because Alex thought moving him about would help work the alcohol out of his system. His apartment wasn't too far away, and as it was, she didn't feel like being confined in a close-quartered cab with him. His hands were roaming enough already. At one point, Bobby decided to try to imitate the "sex against a road sign" maneuver he'd seen the amorous couple earlier demonstrate—and Alex found out just how _big_ a man her partner really was. Maneuvering around his broad chest and long, entangling arms was proving to make the 'walk home' scenario seem like a very stupid idea.

All the while, Bobby's mind was cranking out emotions that were completely unfamiliar to him. Well, in actuality, they were feelings he kept buried deep down—safe in the knowledge that because of their working relationship, he'd never be able to act on them. But with Alex's warm, smooth body pressed against his side, her sent assaulting his senses and making him wish he'd chosen a fabric of pants not as restricting as jeans—the penned up frustrations of working with a partner for four years, whom he found very attractive in a million different ways… was beginning to push violently to the surface.

As they staggered up the stairs into his apartment, Bobby leaned his nose down into her hair, sucking in a deep breath and letting a bestial smile spread across his lips. It had been too long… he'd kept these feeling in for too long. The alcohol had numbed the pain from the bust-gone-bad and from the suspension, but it hadn't banished the subdued longings and desires that often plagued Bobby in the darkness of the night. He was always meant to be a police detective, it was his place in life—where he could let his talents shine without the fear of sticking out as an odd-ball or freak. A tornado of thoughts assaulted Bobby's weary brain as they came to his door, and Alex fumbled the keys out of his coat pocket.

_What am I to do now? Sit on my ass for two weeks reading the Smithsonian? _

_What about the cases? Alex will be alone…I'll be alone. Alone. In the dark._

The thoughts swirled and jumbled themselves into knots—Bobby felt like his head would explode that very minute.

Then, he thought he heard Alex say something like, "Come on, let's get you inside and get some coffee in you…then to bed."

Bobby just wanted to feel again. He wanted to feel something other than pain—something other than this torture conceived of his own mind. In the blackness of his apartment, Alex situated him against the wall before closing the door. He could barely make out her out-line in the shadow—but he could feel her.

And he wanted _more_…right then…he wanted so much more. Bobby _wanted_ her.

As she started to go for the near-by lamp, Alex felt a large, steel hand clamp onto her wrist, whipping her around and slamming her against a wall she couldn't see. The air whooshed from her lungs, her mind stalled.

"What the f-," she was cut off by the massive bulk of a muscular chest pressing against her frame. Before she could react, a knee was prying her legs open wider, while one hand came to hold her jaw and head still. Another long-fingered hand ran down her chest—pulling the zipper of her sweater down with it.

Bobby's breath was slow, smelling of liquor and lust. She couldn't see his face, but then again, she knew the feral smile that was most likely on his lips. Bobby leaned down while she was frozen in shock—running his lips up her neck over her jugular vein—and suckled her ear for a second.

Alex's breathing shuttered; her heart was beating as though she'd run a marathon. The fear she had stamped down with resentment and anger back in the bar, now came flooding back with the force of a dam breaking. This wasn't Bobby Goren anymore… this was someone else. Someone, she might not be able to handle.

"You know," Bobby thrummed against her ear, his arousal pressing into her stomach painfully, "technically… I'm not your "working" partner for the next two weeks."

Alex put her hands against his chest and squirmed, but to no avail. His chuckle rumbled out of that massive chest as he stilled her again.

"No more…fraternization rules."

"Bobby," she breathed

He nipped her ear, making her gasp, "Told you it might be more than you can chew…Alex…"

----

_"Fools live to regret their words, wise men to regret their silence." William Henry_

----

TBC…

PLEASE READ and REVIEW! Tell me what you think!

I am very sorry about the wait. I got incredibly distracted while writing this, and then I wanted to make it just right and warn of the twists the Bobby's character was going to take. Also, I've only been to NYC once, so I do not know what is on West 43rd. All I have is a little map of Manhattan with street names on it, and we don't know where Bobby's apartment is.

Have faith, I told you Bobby's walls would come down and unleash the demons within, and some of those had to be concerning his connection with Alex. Don't be scared, it'll get better…eventually. :evil wink: I hope you liked this chapter!

Stay tuned! Part 4 soon!


	4. Attraction of the Opposition

**Disclaimer:** Law and Order: Criminal Intent and its characters are the property of Dick Wolf, NBC/Universal, and the actors who portray them. I may be envious, but I'm only borrowing them for this semi-short story.

**A. NOTE: **Hey! Wow! It's me! Another chapter…I can't believe it. Saying that I'm useless and very sorry for the inordinately long wait would be a moot point. You all already know that. So let me just send some shout-outs to some people who've continued to aid in the little-known agency of "Finding Lost Muses".

**Piaffe417** for the wonderful compliments. (You are really awesome, you know that!) Whose two new CI stories, especially "Truisms", brought me back to a fandom I love. Brilliant work _Piaffe_, really!

**Trés**** Mechenté**: for her continued support of my CI works, emailing me every now and then for updates and asking "Hey, what's up with "EoN?" Check it out! Another chapter. No… I haven't heard of any snowing in Hell… but you never know with the weather. (grin)

**Cyclone2**: for bringing a smile to my face by wishing that a half-ton Steinway would fall on my head, so that I could have some "down time" in the hospital to finish this story! (Thanks for giving in to temptation Tracy, and reading this)

**TriStateCopFan**: You rock, as always. And might I say, haven't _you_ been the busy little beaver with the writing! Way to go!

**Katica**** Locke**: Whose absolutely phenomenal CI story, "Release" lit the fire under my muse's butt and stoked my imagination with her inventive plot and emotive story telling. You really are very talented, and I love your CI story! Many Thanks!

**--Author Note#2**: You may want to re-read Chapters 2-3 again. I've gone back and changed some things, and added in some little tid-bits you may want to check out. They'll help with the case…along the way. (wink) Rated for Adult Situations and Language. USE your OWN Judgment.--

**"The Energy of Nothing" **by Alamo Girl ©

**Part 4 "Attraction of the Opposition"**

_"It is my belief that sanity lies in realizing that reality is not exactly what we had in mind." Roy Blount_

_"No work of love will flourish out of guilt, fear, or hollowness of heart…just as no valid plans for the future can be made by those who have no capacity for living now." Alan Watts_

There seemed to be a thin line separating "fear" and "attraction". At least, that's the way it has always seemed to Alex Eames. The attraction she'd felt toward the boys in high school, the ones marked as "trouble makers" or "bad news"—were always the ones that (even though she'd try to deny it to herself) had managed to raise her blood pressure a full point or two. Not that she'd ever given in to the temptation before, relying instead on her ingrained sense of right and wrong, her maturity, and the fact that with a pack of brothers and a former cop father waiting at home—she didn't really want to tempt the gauntlet with a "bad-boy" boyfriend. When she had become a cop, Alex noticed the roles reversed somewhat. Men were either attracted to her authority and her handcuffs—one tough little cookie who could put a guy on the ground and have him handcuffed in any number of ways in a matter of seconds -or they were intimidated by her prowess as a detective, afraid she'd be "too much" woman for them. It was an interesting mix, something some practicing field psychologist might want to study.

_"Alex Eames-Good Cops aroused by Bad Boys."_ It sounded like either the title of a psychology thesis paper, ora paper-back novel with _Harlequin_ stamped discreetly on the spine somwhere—Alex couldn't decide which.

And at the moment, none of those thoughts seemed relevant except the _fear_ and _attraction_ element. For here she was, pinned up against a wall by a hulking, menacing shadow—who smelled intoxicatingly like old Scotch malt and musky cologne. A shadow, whose massive frame was pressed against her length so that the heat from his heaving chest was permeating her jacket, making her cheeks flush bright red—a little trickle of sweat forming at her brow. This menacing shadow—whose face she could barely make out in the dark apartment, whose hand had worked the zipper of her sweater all the way down and was now roaming roughly over her breasts—was a man she'd thought to be her partner.

Her partner, Bobby Goren. Shy, sometimes overly animated or quirky in his actions—sometimes quiet and withdrawn as he works out the kinks in a case until all of the ends match up and that little spark in his eye flashes, telling her the connection has been made. The Bobby Goren who was the very definition of "gentleman", from holding doors and chairs—to flashing that perfect white, disarming smile to make even the dodgiest female suspects feel at ease.

This Bobby Goren was now working her sweater over her shoulders, one hand fighting with the button on her jeans. Alex's head was trying to wrap its self around all these facts clamoring for attention, while one completely unwanted yet not entirely unexpected feeling was continuing to build upon itself, like a match flame that had been ignited upon first seeing Bobby in that club. _Attraction_.

She swallowed, summoning "Alexandra" back into action. "Bobby…you don't know what you're doing! It's the alcohol and the stress, that's what's doing this."

She discontinued her failing attempts at stopping Bobby's ever-multiplying hands from working parts of her clothing off—planted both hands firmly in the center of his chest and pushed. Hard.

Bobby hadn't expected such a hard push, and though she was no match for his weight and sheer size, it did manage to knock him back and off of her a few inches. Immediately his body ached with the deprival of her warmth, her soft skin under his lips. Her breath was coming in quick heaves, and he smiled inwardly as he remembered how her body reacted to his touch—sending out waves of aroused pheromones and trembling beneath his deft finger tips.

"Oh Alex, I think we both know it's not just the few drinks that brought this on," Bobby said in a low tone, trying to make out her features.

He knew she was probably glaring, putting up a façade of being incensed by his actions. But he knew what she was _really_ feeling, his keen perception may be dulled, but not absent.

_Why is she fighting this?_

"And, I know of some ways to relieve that… stress, Alexandra," her full name rolled off his tongue like molasses and arsenic. "You came here to take care of me didn't you? Your…burden to bear, right? Always the "mother hen", worrying about poor unstable Bobby."

The last part dripped with acid. Anger and frustration—everything Bobby usually kept under lock and key was now barreling out of Pandora's Box.

Alex shuttered involuntarily, and not from arousal. "Partners watch out for each other, you damn-well know that! And I never said you were-…"

"Unstable? Crazy? Unpredictable… Manic?" Bobby leaned back in slow and deliberately, his forehead on hers now, and closed his eyes as anguish reentered his voice. "That's what the Brass will probably be saying word-for-word to Deakins and Carver. Not to mention I.A. They've been waiting for this to happen, and now…now, I've finally lived up to all the rumors floating around One P.P."

Alex's heart sank into her abdomen. Is this what Bobby really thinks is being said behind his back? She opened her mouth to speak, but words died on her lips as she looked up into Bobby's pain-ridden face.

He chuckled bitterly. "Yeah, I know what's been said. Most think I'm some kind of profiling genius…the Rosetta Stone of all things…_intuitive_…and one step away from becoming a psycho-neurotic crack-pot! The rest think I've already pole-vaulted over that line—that maybe my mother's curse has already visited upon the son."

His hand on the back of Alex's neck tightened, as though keeping her in contact with him, painfully if need be, was his only life line.

To Bobby, it was the literal truth.

"That's not true Bobby, and you know it. You are the most gifted man I've ever met, with an insight that most will never understand." Her voice tightened, from a pain inside she could neither place, nor hope to describe.

He opened his eyes, staring hard into hers, his voice becoming almost child-like, "But you do, don't you Alex?"

"Yeah, I guess I do." She smiled slightly, though the pressure of his thick hand on the back of her neck seemed to be getting stronger. "Now c'mon, let me get some coffee and food into you."

She tried to move, but his hand became a vice on her neck, pinching. Alex winced. She thought she was getting through—getting a glimpse of her partner back.

She'd said she understood him, and to Bobby it was music to his soul. She was "his" Alex…his partner and touch-stone—the one who would always understand him. But he was still sensing that she was resisting him, like she didn't want to admit that this "thing" (or whatever it was) that had been brewing between them the past couple of years wasn't just a "partnership". Not like any simple friendship or working relationship—No, Bobby was sure of that. This was something much deeper. His emotions were raw and frayed.

He needed more. He deserved more, damnit! Alex should understand that too! Her proximity was intoxicating to his already hampered state, and her skin, the feel of her curves pressed under his muscular bulk was like throwing gasoline on a forest fire. Slowly, the hand that had been behind Eames' neck, holding her in place, swiveled around to the front of her throat. Bobby knew just how much pressure to use—enough to keep her still, and feel her pulse racing under his hot skin. But not enough to hurt her.

Alex sucked in a sharp breath. Bobby's head bent down to her collar bone again, running his lips gingerly over her tense skin – tasting, relishing. The sensations his lips enticed from the nerves under her skin were electric—hot and wet, causing her breathing to become shallow, a flush was running rapidly from her chest up to her cheeks. As Bobby's eyes adjusted to the dark, he could see now what his actions were causing—and it only made him want more. He let his hand that had worked the zipper front of her sweater down, slide over her bra, tingling as his finger tips soaked up the trembling heat and swell of her curves.

Bobby was finally feeling again. Alex fit so perfectly beneath him, against him…and for the first time in God-knows-when…Bobby felt passion again. But this wasn't the same passion he'd felt bubble deep inside, as the thrill of catching a killer came to a climax, when he'd nail them to the wall with their own words in the interrogations. Or the same passion that caused him to become a police officer in the first place—wanting justice for victims of crimes.

This _primal_ passion hadn't stirred in Bobby in a long time, and now it had become a drug. And his thirst for it seemed parched, insatiable.

-----

Alex's head was fogged. Somewhere along the way, she'd lost control of this situation. She'd come with the best of intentions to help her flailing partner away from the cliff's edge, away from his Hell and back to her. She'd intended to get him home, safe and sound—clean him up and to watch over him through this trial by fire. She figured everything would work out.

_What was the road to Hell paved in, again?_

Bobby's lower body was preventing her legs from moving; the sheer pressure of his bulk was almost compressing the air from her lungs. But it was the hand around her throat that made the fog of pleasure his expert hands and lips were causing—freeze to ice. Alex squirmed again, trying to find some leverage between herself and Bobby, at least enough to put some air between them.

His hand on her throat tightened—just a margin.

Alex's eyes widened. Most people don't like to be backed into a corner against their will, nor encompassed by another body until all routes of escape are cut off and the smothering tension steals the oxygen from the air. Alex had been pinned against a wall before—in work and in play—but when there is a hand around the throat, real _fear_ sets in.

She'd seen enough young woman on the ME's slab, throats crushed by some man's hands. She knew what a vulnerable spot it was—just a little squeeze and the larynx folds in like an accordion. The Hyoid bone snaps, and the windpipe crushes inward, shutting off the air. And for the first time, real, nauseous fear bubbled up within her that Bobby might squeeze _just that much_.

Alex's hands stopped fumbling with trying to keep Bobby's hands at bay, and found a place against his enormous chest. He was breathing harder, kissing her chest and breasts, his hands working harder against her skin. Alex arched her back somewhat, to give some leverage, and pushed hard against her partner's chest once again.

"Bobby…knock it off!" She managed to get most of the sentence out, only semi-garbled.

A growl rumbled up out of Goren's chest, frustrated that this little whiff of a woman was still resisting him. And it was also a pained sound, as though she were ripping something vitally important away from him. Bobby's weight shifted backward a little, though Alex knew it was only because he decided to move. Her push hadn't moved him an inch. He brought both hands to her face, dwarfing it in his thick palms.

"God Alex. Why are you fighting it?" Goren's voice was hushed but intense.

His nose touched hers, his eyes searching for something. Alex didn't know what.

"Bobby," she said slowly, "we're partners. Friends. You know we can't do…" Alex faltered as one hand left her face, to snake around her lower back and press her torso and hips hard against his. Frighteningly hard.

Alex hissed through her teeth, "_This_!"

"Do what, Alex?" Bobby's voice dropped an octave as his arousal went up another notch or two. "Do what? What we've always wanted? C'mon Alex. You know…you've wanted to just as much as me."

He ran his tongue over her jaw line. "All that's been standing in…in the way was the _job_. And, well…" he paused for effect, locking eyes with her again, "that's pretty-much over now, isn't it."

He wasn't asking. Bobby was _stating_ a fact_ -_that he'd given up. He'd given in, and was now going to reap the benefits their partnership—as fulfilling as it had been—had denied them for the past years.

"_Damnit_ Goren," she spat, "nothing is over! I'm trying to help you, here!"

But Alex could help the little twinge somewhere in the recess of her brain—where she kept her desires locked away—that Bobby was right. Some part of her must have wanted this too. Perhaps, even needed it.

The force of that thought gave Alex enough pause, that she momentarily let her defenses waver. And Goren, as perceptive as always when it came to body language, felt it. He took the open opportunity and crushed her mouth against his in a bruising kiss. Alex's eyes went wide for a second, her body bucked as iron arms engulfed her, moving her toward the couch.

-------

Then, as if the moment were to stretch into oblivion, a small voice in Alex's head murmured to her through the fog.

_Why are you fighting this, Alex darling? It's not like you haven't thought about it before—sitting there across from this man, day after day. Watching his brilliant mind work, reveling in those shy, private smiles he affords you. _

Her body slowly began to relax, giving in to the kiss and eliciting another sub-sonic rumble of passion from Goren.

_The way he sees into you when you lock eyes, not in an invasion, but as an assurance to himself that you are with him, on the same page. You've seen how even at a crime scene, interviewing witnesses, he can make a brown, leather jacket and a casual sweater—seem alluring_.

She was dimly aware that her back had come in contact with the soft, oversized cushions of Goren's couch—that her sweater was completely open, hot breath and soft lips caressing pale skin. His weight shifted as he let his hands roam southward, deftly working her jeans down…

The voice purred, _And__ when he turns on that irresistible side—the side that allows him to get so close to a woman, even while he's breaking down their denials during a case, it's down-right intimate. The way he was with Nelda, in the end. You felt the waves of heat, radiating from him—as he tore down her armor, exposing her vulnerabilities to the world, and just how much loneliness can affect a soul. _

_He was gentle, tender…all of that Goren-essence was focused directly on her—and you'd have given anything to be Nelda at that moment. To feel Bobby focus all that intensity on you—your knees turn to rubber and your blood boils. And to have him 'mean' it—because your connection with him is unlike any you've ever had with another human, and for once, you wanted Bobby Goren to look at you with all the passion and lo- _

Alex gasped inwardly as the realization hit her with all the subtleness of a cinder block. Bobby had let his guard down that day, he'd let Alex have a little peek into the Bobby Goren-away-from-work. Sure, he had his hobbies—the occasional date that never went past a couple of dinners, and ended with a _"I had a great time..."_ and no hard feelings. But away from the job, when there were no leads to follow, no clues to connect—Bobby's demons would crawl back in. The Loneliness—thick and overwhelming, like a quagmire that engulfed the more he struggled—would win out the night, making the following work day a welcome relief.

Pain stabbed through Alex's gut. This is what Bobby had to look forward to with his badge gone. He'd drown… like Nelda. She'd killed in an attempt to bring her one ray of light back into her life—to stem the soul-sucking loneliness. How far would Goren go?

That thought jolted Alex back into the present, as she felt his hardness press down on her abdomen. She sucked in another sharp breath, his pants were already opened and his tongue was lathing her stomach. _This is what he's doing!_ Her partner had already fallen off that plateau into the ravine…and he was going to take her with him. He'd given up hope in himself, since he knew there would be no 'niche' for him. His place, his defining purpose had been taken—and now he was going to lash out at the loneliness with his last weapon. His partner, his Eames—with no thought to the consequences that tomorrow would bring.

But Alex knew. She knew what this would do to their partnership, not to mention their friendship. Deep down, some part of her may have wanted to close that gap of intimacy between her and Bobby…but not _this_ way!

"Stop it." Alex's voice had never trembled in the presence of her partner (and certainly never _because_ of him) but it did this time. She shifted to try to get a knee under him, before he had her underwear completely down.

"That's not what your body is saying," he purred in her ear, as one hand found its way down her underwear. "No…definitely not a "_stop_" I'm getting from you."

Alex felt a lump lodge its self in her throat. _He wouldn't. Even with the booze…he just…wouldn't…_

"Goren," Alex tried to harden her voice as she struggled. "Stop this now. I don't want this…and I know you don't really want it – to go...this way."

"You're wrong…you don't know how long I've…wanted…" Bobby brought his face level with hers as his hand dove deeper—his fingers deep into her softness.

Alex gasped, bucked and yelped before she could think, "NO! This isn't you! _PLEASE_, Bobby, don't do this to us! _Please_!"

Goren froze, the sound of her anguish reverberated through his war-weary body and soul. He braced himself above her, as every molecule of passion or lust evaporated, leaving him aching in ways that had nothing to do with physical pain.

Alex saw those brown eyes, locked with hers—melting into shame and self-hatred. She hadn't felt the tears that ran paths down her cheeks—but Bobby saw them. Each one wrought a chasm of pain through his heart.

He did this. He almost…

Bobby shook, as his hand lightly grazed Alex's face—as if to remind himself this wasn't a dream. Alex had never seen such pain, or felt the realization crashing in on him, like waves on a shore—and her fear ebbed into worry. For him.

"Alex…oh God," Bobby breathed. He moved off of her, pushing himself back to the far corner of the couch. His fists came up to his face.

"What have I…" he stuttered, "I'm sorry…Christ, I'm so sorry. I almost…I-I al-most…"

"Bobby?" Alex collected herself, her clothes back together, but stayed on her side of the couch.

He was muttering to himself now, his face turned away – one fist at his lips in his normally thoughtful pose, the other arm wrapped around himself.

"I almost…to her…should've known. Almost lost…"

It was all coming in bits and jagged pieces to Eames, but she knew she'd never seen Goren in this much distress. For good reason, too. If he hadn't stopped…Alex swallowed the lump that had risen again in her throat.

"Bobby, it's okay. I know that wasn't…" she faltered as Goren swung his head slowly to her, his eyes half-lidded and cast down. He wasn't going to look at her, probably wouldn't for a long time.

"That wasn't you, Goren. You know better than anyone what alcohol and stress can do to a person. You can't blame yourself like this, Bobby…I – I let it get out of hand too." She tilted her head to catch his eyes, but Goren rose from the couch in one frighteningly graceful movement, and stood facing his immense bookshelf.

For a moment, Bobby stood still—something that was very unsettling to Alex, as Goren's usually restless nature had become a comfort to her over the years.

Softly, he said, "Seven women dead. Now…a cop…dead."

Alex stared at that broad back.

"Three months of work, and that bastard kills two people – right in front of me." His head turned slightly to the side, "He nearly killed you…"

"Bobby…" she started, but Goren's voice cut her off.

"No Alex! He nearly killed you! All of this happened because I…I screwed up!" His voice strained with fatigue and soul-gutting pain. "This all happened on my watch, it was…my case! And now…now I almost…"

Alex felt another tear trickle down her face as she watched the man she most cared about, a once bright, beautiful soul—lean his back against the wall, and slide down its length in utter defeat to the floor.

He drew in a ragged, deep breath – one arm slung over a knee as he sat braced against the wall, a broken man. "To you. Of all the people…the one person I would never – hurt…could never hurt."

Alex slowly stood. She'd heard something she'd never thought she'd hear come from her partner – a sob. She wiped at the tears coming down her cheeks, Bobby needed her to be strong…not break down into a blubbering mass. But as she made her way to him, cautiously, Goren suddenly jerked his head up, halting her in her tracks.

"Just go, Alex. Leave…please." His eyes, welled with tears, floated over her features for a moment. Then, he gestured aimlessly with one hand, toward the door.

"You can't save me… all the time," he muttered, his head down again.

Alex nodded slightly, swallowed her tears and adjusted her sweater, and made her way to his door.

Just before she exited, Bobby admitted in a low voice, "You shouldn't keep trying to save me, y'know. I don't think I'm worth it."

Alex paused in the open doorway, lifted her chin but didn't look back and answered softly, "Well, I think you are."

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_"The cradle rocks above an abyss, and common sense tells us that our existence is but a brief crack of light between two eternities of darkness." Vladimir Nabokov_

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TBC…Please READ and REVIEW! Reviews feed the Author's soul! You give your precious time to read this work, let me know what YOU think?

Sorry, that one got long, angsty and pretty dark. Brief mention of "Semi-Detached" in there. I'm going to start on the next chapter this week if I can, so let me know how I'm doing. Sorry again for the long wait, guys. Real-Life sucks sometimes.


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